


The Proof is in The Pudding

by S_G_M



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crime, Death, Deduction, Gen, Illness, London, Mistress, Murder, Nurses, Sickness, St. Bart's, corpse, elderly, ex-wife, geriatric, old
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 05:03:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1416100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_G_M/pseuds/S_G_M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a geriatric man's granddaughter comes to Sherlock, asking him to solve what only she thinks is a murder, the 'case' she wants them to take seems non-existent, until a few simple words change the clever consulting detective's mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Proof is in The Pudding

A few short weeks ago, Sherlock and I had worked on a particularly odd case involving the death of quite an aged man at his home, who had been looked after by two live-in nurses.

Despite Alexander Wellmont being rather ill with a combination of serious conditions, his granddaughter had been entirely convinced that he hadn’t died of natural causes.

Local police didn’t feel that there was anything to look into, and while they had taken down her information and spoke to her about the situation, nothing else had been done.

And, after Lacy Dupuis had realised that she wasn’t going to be taken seriously, she came down to Baker Street to try and hire Sherlock to find out what Mr. Wellmont’s actual cause of death was.

 

As she sat down in the seat Sherlock and I have always used for potential clients, Miss Dupuis gave a long-winded explanation of why she felt that her grandfather’s death had not been due to illness, going off on insignificant tangents from time to time.

Sherlock had punctuated her speech with the odd snarky remark, as I did my best to listen courteously.

I couldn’t understand why foul play was suspected, and thought perhaps her grief-stricken mind had jumped to conclusions in order to busy itself.

The man had been gravely ill, lying in his bed, hooked up to multiple machines that had assisted him in staying alive.

She herself had acknowledged that the doctors hadn’t given her grandfather much longer to live, and that he’d been encouraged to have his affairs in order as soon as possible.

Sherlock was looking very, very bored, though I could tell he was mulling over anything vaguely interesting that this overly animated woman had said.

“Well, will you help me, or won’t you?” She asked in her slight Cockney accent, looking at us as though daring us to decline, her eyes red and puffy from crying.

Sherlock brushed a stray curl from his forehead.

“What you have just described for the most part, in abundantly worthless detail, is the typical demise of a man afflicted with stomach cancer, eczema, asthma and eosinophilic meningoencephalitis.” Sherlock intoned with a touch of monotony.

“Nonetheless, despite the fact that your grandfather would undoubtedly have expired from either the cancer or eosinophilic meningoencephalitis, I am relatively certain that his cause of death was not linked to either of these.”

I looked curiously over to Sherlock.

What was it that had aroused his interest in what appeared to be, even for me, a dull sort of case?

Sherlock ignored me, telling our new client that he would indeed take the case.

 

After Miss Dupuis departed, Sherlock had stood up, fastening his suit jacket.

“What did I miss, exactly?” I asked him curiously.

Sherlock gave me a tiny half-grin of amusement.

No matter how hard I tried to keep up, there was always something that I’d missed.

But, the fact that I continued to strive to take it all in seemed to make Sherlock proud in a way.

“She stated that her grandfather had begun to emit an odd scent after entering the hospital, John.” He began, seemingly waiting for me to make the connection from that.

“Yeah, sort of like garlicky fish.” I said with a shrug, not thinking that it was anything extraordinary. “And?”

I’d supposed that could have been due to the medications he’d been on.

It would be a tremendously rare side effect, but even so, it wasn’t something to entirely disregard.

“And, that odour, combined with some of the symptoms she’d described, suggests poisoning.” Sherlock replied, grabbing his scarf and pulling on his overcoat.

“That can’t be why you took the case.” I told him, pulling on my own jacket. “All because of an old man’s pong... Or is it?”

Sherlock frowned.

“Of course not, John.” He stated with a touch of annoyance. “But, why would someone want to kill an already dying man? Especially one with so little time left to him?”

I couldn’t think of any feasible reason and said so.

“Exactly.” Sherlock told me, turning and leaving the flat.

 

 

Alexander Wellmont’s body had been transported to St. Bart’s mortuary.

As it was a Tuesday, we would be working with Molly.

After the wedding, she had chosen to work less shifts so that she and Tom would have more time with one another.

As I chatted with a considerably pregnant Molly, Sherlock began to work.

I had expected things to take a while, and so I made myself as comfortable as a person can in a morgue.

However, it had only been a matter of perhaps five minutes when Sherlock had found something.

“Acute arsenicosis.” He stated, standing up. “Hopefully the rest of this case won’t be so dreadfully predictable.”

Sherlock looked over to Molly.

“When was the autopsy on Wellmont performed?” He asked her, lightly frowning.

Molly glanced down at the clipboard with the corpse’s information on it.

“Two days ago.” She answered simply.

“That explains why the toxin was absent at the time of the procedure.” Sherlock continued quietly, thinking.

I blinked.

“Wait… That would mean that the nurses would have known about the poisoning, or at least that he had needed immediate medical attention and should have been taken to a hospital.” I said in realisation.

“Quite likely.” Sherlock replied.

 

 

After saying goodbye to Molly, we headed to the Wellmont residence.

The nurses were still there, apparently having nowhere else to go after the death.

Sherlock had them believing some yarn about his being Alexander Wellmont’s grandson, not having been very close to Wellmont and therefore likely not being mentioned very often.

“Ah, yes. I think Alexander told me about you quite some time back.” Marla, a woman in her late 40’s said kindly, ushering us in. “You’re the one that got drunk and pooped in the cat litter pan when you were a teenager, yeah?”

Sherlock blinked, as I bit back laughter.

“I’d rather not go into that, if it’s all the same to you.” Sherlock said, feigning embarrassment.

Marla nodded, chuckling lowly.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist. Besides, that’s about the only thing he ever told me about you.” She explained apologetically.

The house was dark, with most of the curtains pulled shut and only the odd lamp lighting the house.

“Could I see his room?” Sherlock asked, and Marla showed him the way, while I looked around the den.

As I waited for them to come back, a diminutive foreign woman of perhaps four and feet tall walked in.

She didn’t say anything for a moment, only peering at me suspiciously.

“And who are you, exactly?” She asked in a Brazilian accent, crossing her arms.

I was a little taken aback at her blatantly rude tone.

“I’m, uh, just a friend of Mr. Wellmont’s son.” I lied with a friendly smile on my face. “He didn’t want to come here alone… Needed some support, you know. My name’s John.”

The petite lady’s demeanour softened a little.

“Oh.” She said quietly. “I see… I’m Amita.“

I sat down on an overstuffed sofa, since there was really nothing for me to do at the moment.

She sat down next to me.

“I didn’t even know that Alex had a grandson.” She told me, seeming surprised and on the edge of tears. “ … Alex shared everything with me."

Amita sniffed, her eyes tearing up.

“I miss him.” She sobbed into her hands, leaning onto her bony knees.

Not really knowing what else to do, I patted her back.

It was during this that Sherlock and Marla returned.

“What the bloody hell have you gone and done?” Marla demanded angrily, her eyes flashing. “Upsetting the poor girl like that! You ought to be ashamed.”

Amita looked up and shook her head.

“It’s fine, Mar.” She said jerkily, her breathing erratic.

Marla squinted an eye at her.

“You sure?” She asked, giving me a filthy look.

Amita nodded.

“I just… I want him back.” She said, beginning to sob once again.

Marla squished her thick frame in between the crying woman and me, putting an arm around Amita and comforting her.

 

 

After Amita had calmed down and gone to rest, Marla answered a few of Sherlock’s questions.

According to the nurse, the only thing that had been out of the ordinary is that Wellmont’s recent ex-wife had begun visiting him a couple of times a week for a month or so preceding his death.

Each time, she’d brought him a little something to ‘lift his spirits’.

The night that Mr. Wellmont had succumbed to poisoning was when the nurses had been given the night off by their employer, leaving him alone with his ex-wife.

After a short while, Sherlock glanced at his watch and acted as though he hadn’t realised how late it had gotten.

“Thank you, Marla, though if I don’t get going I’ll be late for an appointment.” He lied.

Marla nodded understandingly. “Of course. It was nice to meet you.”

Just as we were heading out the door, Marla stopped Sherlock, grabbing his hand.

Sherlock immediately stiffened his spine and stopped.

“I’m sorry for your loss, dear, even if the two of you weren’t close.” She intoned softly, reaching up and holding his face, gazing into his eyes. “You look so much like your grandfather when he was younger…”

Sherlock took a step backwards, not appreciating having his face latched onto in such a manner.

“Yes… I… Well, I really must be going.” He told her with a small sniff, acting as though his emotions were starting to get the best of him.

 

 

It didn’t take Sherlock long at all to find out where the ex-Mrs. Wellmont, now Miss Grey, lived.

 

Miss Grey’s estate was on the outer part of Eastern London, a quiet and upper crust sort of place that was far too large for one person, even with a staff.

Considering her socialite status and that her family was well off, she hadn’t worked a day in her life.

She preferred to spend most of her time drinking as she lounged in her spacious indoor swimming pool.

There was the odd thing about her in some past news articles; a few arrests, a small mention or two of physical violence towards shop employees, mainly negative stuff.

All in all, she wasn’t a well-liked woman, and she had a distinct reputation.

It wouldn’t surprise me at all to find out that she was the killer.

 

We were granted access at the gate after Sherlock told the guard the same thing he’d told the nurses, and when we’d arrived at the front door, a middle-aged black lady dressed in an old-fashioned uniform greeted us solemnly.

“Mistress does not like to be disturbed when she’s taking tea, and she hates anyone being allowed to roam about willy-nilly, so you’ll have to wait here in the foyer.” She told them firmly but politely. “She shouldn’t be too much longer.”

We agreed, and sat down on one of the maple bench seats to wait.

Before Miss Grey turned up nearly a half hour later, I counted at least seven more black maids; all dressed in the same outdated uniform.

I recalled that even the guard at the gate had been black.

I felt profoundly uncomfortable with the situation, and would have liked nothing more than to leave.

Sherlock sensed this.

“I know, John.” He said quietly. “This shouldn’t take too much longer.”

I appreciated his trying to ease my mind, but it didn’t help.

My thoughts strayed to a certain portion of history, and though none of my family had ever been involved in any sort of slavery or the like, I felt a strange guilt overtaking me and it made me feel a little sick.

Soon enough, we heard the sharp click of heels on the smooth marble flooring.

A tall, willowy brunette with brown eyes strode over to greet us, a fake smile plastered onto her slowly aging face.

I wondered if there was any part of her that hadn’t been altered by a plastic surgeon.

“I hear that you’re Alex’s grandson, what do you want with me?” She asked, the mock cheer in her voice enough to set anyone’s teeth on edge.

Sherlock stood up.

“I was curious why you’d taken a sudden interest in Alexander Wellmont’s well-being directly before his death.” He told her matter-of-factly. “I’d also like to know the motivation regarding the break-up betwixt the two of you.”

Miss Grey’s plastic smile didn’t slip, though her eyes grew frostier.

I began to wonder if her weird grin didn’t have something to do with a ‘smile lipt’.

“Well, I knew that he didn’t have long left and I wanted us to make up before it was too late.” She replied with a shrug. “And, we had split up because he was fucking that little Brazilian whore of a nurse.”

I wasn’t altogether shocked to learn that, considering Amita’s emotional state over Wellmont’s death.

“You knew about that, though, didn’t you?” Sherlock asked knowingly. “That’s not the real reason you were angry with him.”

Miss Grey’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

“You don’t know anything about the situation, so don’t you dare pretend that you do.” She stated angrily, intense dislike in her voice.

Sherlock wasn’t fazed.

“Oh, I know virtually everything about the situation, Miss Grey.” He replied cockily, as the woman’s brows knit in annoyance.

“I’ll bet you aren’t even his grandson, just a lousy reporter looking for another scoop!” She spat, trying to sneer around that hideous smile. “I should call the cops.”

Sherlock leaned in, murmuring something into her ear.

Miss Grey’s face paled, and she pulled away from him, staring at him vehemently.

“We’re done here, John.” Sherlock told me, and while I sure as hell didn’t know what was going on, I followed him out of the massive house.

I was a bit surprised to find that just outside the door stood Lestrade, a few of his constables waiting for his order to go inside.

There were also some officers around the perimeter for security.

 

As the team retrieved and arrested Miss Grey, Sherlock explained as we looked on.

“When we were at the Wellmont house, Marla had needed to excuse herself, and I had taken the opportunity to take a swift look around the kitchen.”

“Considering that the arsenic was more than likely administered orally, and that Marla had stated that the uneaten portion of the treat that Miss Grey had brought was still in the fridge, I quickly tested it.”

Lestrade joined us, as Miss Grey, accompanied by two constables and in cuffs, walked past.

She glared at him furiously, making that horrible smile all the worse.

Sherlock gave her a sarcastic little smile and a tiny wave.

“So, that’s it then? Just a jealous ex-wife that poisoned his food?” I asked, a bit disappointed that it hadn’t been something more elaborate.

Sherlock nodded.

“That’s all, I’m afraid.” He said. “She committed the murder because since the moment she’d discovered his extra-marital affair, she’d often fantasised about killing Wellmont. Taking his age and health into consideration, she had assumed that his death wouldn’t be suspicious and that she would go unpunished.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something else but then thinking better of it.

I raised an eyebrow.

“What?” I asked, Lestrade looking interested.

Sherlock looked over to the police car where Miss Grey was being seated in the back.

“I suppose that you could say that the proof was in the pudding.” He said, looking almost pleased with himself.

“Really, Sherlock?” Lestrade groaned, shaking his head in disapproval.

I laughed.

“If there’s a better time for that saying, I’ve not heard it.” I said in amusement.

And, with that, we headed home, leaving Lestrade to head back to the station with his team.


End file.
